Wolfbane - Into the Southern Mists
by Battle cries
Summary: Karg Wolfbane is a veteran adventurer who at one time merely wished to live a simple life, up until receiving summons to Grommash Hold. Whereupon he encounters a whole new experience. Prologue to a larger project - Beyond the Misted Veils. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: the Warcraft brand belongs to Blizzard entertainment, I own nothing but my own characters.

Warcraft - Into the Southern Mists

Chapter I - To Answer the Call

Karg Wolfbane rode into Orgrimmar upon the back of a mighty drake, its hide a mottled bronze, its eyes a luminous yellow-green stare. For eight long years he had been travelling the world known to him, and the world his kind once called home, and he had had several parts in the course of history, having survived the Outlands, the wrath of the dead Lich King Arthas, and even the Cataclysm that wrought the world asunder. He had been present at the Sunwell Plateau, a member of the charge that pushed Kil'jaeden back into the Nether, among the hundreds that helped hunt down Illidan. He had helped craft Shadowmourne and was the last of its bearers in the final, tumultuous battle at the peak of the Icecrown glacier.

Not even Ulduar had thrown him to the dirt, and he had assisted in the felling of an Old God, much like how he had taken part in storming the ruins of Ahn'qiraj, allowing a smaller raid group access to the temple of the city's peak. When the black aspect Deathwing tore his way out of the earth, he had been one of many to take part in the charge that eliminated him once and for all. Like the other survivors on that terrible day, he did not celebrate, but instead mourned the losses of comrades he had grown attached to.

Eventually the mottled bronze drake – Tempori – landed upon a small outlet not too high off of the ground, allowing him to hop off onto the ground. As his plated feet hit the dirt he looked up to the Drake, who was now hovering just above the alcove, looking down upon him with the usual blank look

"Will you be alright on your own, Tempori?" he asked, and the drake merely looked down to him

"We are dragonkin (**dragonkin**), young master (**master**)" the drake replied, bobbing her head before flying off onto the hunt. As the drake flew off Karg felt the soulstone connecting the two of them grow colder slightly, signifying she was flying further off. With a grunt he set off towards Grommash Hold, intent on answering the summons. He took out the note as he trekked through the dusty roads of the Valley of Honor

_Lok'tar ogar, Orc. I am Nazgrim._

_You are hereby ordered to present yourself to Garrosh Hellscream at Grommash Hold immediately._

_By his decree, all in service to the Horde are to swear an oath of allegiance to their new Warchief._

_Do not keep him waiting, Orc._

At the mention of this 'Nazgrim', his mind went blank, unable to remember anyone by that name. Still, if the Warchief need reassurance of his people's loyalty, he would be all too happy to oblige him. Tucking the note away he trekked onwards, passing several grunts as they tried to ease tensions between two groups of Orcs, both of which looked intent on tearing the other group's eyes out.

-Grommash Hold-

As he trudged towards the great doorway of the imposing structure, two armed Kor'kron – the elite of the Horde's forces – marched out, pallid grey-green skin making him almost heave at them. Within his mind the echoes of countless Blackrock Orcs laughed and jeered at the thought that their kinsmen had managed to perturb their killer.

Shoving those thought aside he marched inside, and was greeted by an Orc with sea-green skin and black hair, adorned in black armour. The General Nazgrim merely held his hands behind his back as he inspected the ragtag adventurer

"Ahh, good." The general mused, as he began to make his way into the throne room of Garrosh Hellscream "You're here, and not a moment too soon." And with that the General made his report, as he watched from the doorway

* * *

"I am pleased to report that the battle at sea goes well, Warchief." Nazgrim reported, walking across a great map of Azeroth decorating the floor, pointing at two large red Xs as he passed "Our forces report decisive victories off the coast of Tanaris and Tol Barad." Hellscream looked down from his dais as he got to his feet

"Alliance blood spills…" the Warchief mused, his eyes darting to two Xs for a moment before refocusing on the General "This pleases me, General." Nazgrim seemed to look timid as he spoke up once again

"There's more." He stated, his voice quivering a moment before returning to a gravelly flat line " I've received word that our southern fleet engaged an Alliance envoy. We chased the royal flagship"- Garrosh's eyes lit up at the word 'royal' -"Until it ran aground." Garrosh's eyes flared for a brief second as he asked a simple question

"Aground? Where?" Nazgrim gulped a little before pointing to a lone model of a ship on the southernmost edge of the map

"Apparently, they found a massive, uncharted landmass shrouded by dense mists." With his back turned, Nazgrim never noticed Garrosh descend from his throne until he felt the rancid breath on his neck. As the General turned about face, he was bombarded by a tirade of anger and phlegm

"And you let _THE ALLIANCE GET THERE FIRST!?_" Garrosh roared, Nazgrim was forced back a few paces, almost stumbling over one of the model ships in 'open seas', Garrosh pointed at him "Redirect the invasion fleet. General," Garrosh once again stormed up to Nazgrim "You and your best veterans will _pave our way_." Garrosh turned to face the alliance ship model and raised his foot

"Storm the shore, _and paint this new continent RED!_"

Author's Notes:

Ah, hello there! You may not know me, but that doesn't matter.

For the past while now I've been contemplating this story, and I've actually only just got around to actually writing it! Anyway, _Into the Southern Mists_ will hopefully be the first part of a series chronicling the events of _Mists_ _of Pandaria_.

As you can see, in this first chapter I've set up Karg (who may seem like a bloody Mary Sue, but I'm hammering out those kinks, violently as needed) and his faithful mount Tempori (who got around three minutes of limelight this chapter, I'm working on adding more parts featuring her in as I type).

Either way, all I want is for you, the audience, to enjoy it and hand out constructive criticism (not just criticism, laddy buck) where applicable.

I'll now bid you _adieu_.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: the Warcraft brand belongs to Blizzard entertainment; I own nothing but my own characters.

Warcraft – Into the Southern Mists

Chapter II – To Join the Hunt

Karg waited quietly as the General stomped over, clapping a crimson plated gauntlet on his shoulder plate – the ornate mithril letting out a dull clang as the heavy plated hand clapped down upon it. The younger adventurer watched as the grizzled veteran studied him before speaking

"You hear that, grunt?" the General inquired, the unnervingly grim stare remaining in place as he spoke, Karg nodded simply before Nazgrim continued "There's Alliance that need killing, and I need a veteran crew. Someone of your calibre is a requirement of joining that crew. Are you coming or not?" Karg merely returned the stare before giving a simple

"Yes."

Nazgrim let out a dour smile as he walked out of the Hold "We won't be returning until our assignment's complete, so round up your things and make ready. When you're done, get aboard the gunship over Bladefist Bay. I'll be gathering more people for the job." The adventurer gave a silent nod before taking our the soul gem, his grip upon its Byzantium surface, quietly willing for the owner of the other half to pick him up.

His wait did not last long.

The beating of wings alerted him to the presence of a drake hovering above him, the mottled bronze scales shining dully in the harsh light of the sun. Tempori returned the grin he gave off as she landed, left wing folding to the floor as he clambered upon her back and into the saddle

"I take it we are needed somewhere, master (**master**)?" she asked, blank green eyes focusing as she took the skies once more, powerful wing muscles propelling them into the air before flapping idly as she waited for orders. Karg looked towards the bank. With a silent order Tempori took off, wings beating strong before entering a glide.

-Bank of Orgrimmar-

"Branzlit, I want my average draw." The Goblin merely looked up at the moderately well-muscled Orc stood opposite him, on the other side of the grill. Taking a small sack he reached into the large pile of coins behind him and took a handful of gold and silver before handing it to Karg

"There ya go," Branzlit said, his eyes flashing angrily at the loss of money. Karg flexed an eye brow inquisitively before the Goblin muttered something beneath his breath and handed over several more gold coins "Forgot some."

"Be lucky I don't report you, Bran." Karg stated bluntly before stomping away, the two grunts in the doorway nodding briefly as he went past. As he exited he motioned to Tempori – who had decided to perch upon the roof of the bank "Okay, Tem, remember Bladefist bay?"

"I do have ears, Karg (**Karg**), I can use them as well (**well**)."

-_Hellscream's Fist_, above Bladefist Bay-

Tempori landed with a light thud upon the wooden deck of the gunship hovering ominously above the bay, its wolf head figurehead barely concealing the muzzle of the immense cannon that nearly stretched halfway across the top deck. Stood in front of them was Nazgrim, at the head of several others. All of notable repute, himself having served alongside at least three of the fourteen lined up in front of them.

There was Grakua Icecry – so called because she screamed louder than a scourge banshee while drunk one night. She then proceeded to eliminate the banshee in combat, alongside the four accompanying skeletons. The latter, however, were taken out by the young Jormungar currently hovering behind her – it appeared to have grown in the few years since he'd last seen her.

Maurisan Rainheart, a Tauren shaman of some repute. Most of his exploits were actually minor, though shining highlights among them were calming a group of enraged earth elementals by playing a drum. No one had actually managed to figure out how he had pulled that one off. Another was the shale spider that walked alongside him, he never told anyone just how he came to be accompanied by the elemental creature.

The last face he could actively remember was Davius Plaguebringer, a warlock of the Forsaken, and one in a situation of actual power among his peers. Given he was the first of his dead kind to step foot in Uldum, he'd received some form of boon in exchange for whatever artefacts he could la his formerly-rotting hands on.

As he dismounted he noticed Pandaren in the crowd, both had placated looks on their faces, Before he could greet them nazgrim walked over

"Welcome aboard _Hellscream's Fist_, Karg!" Nazgrim barked, almost happily, as the two pandaren in the background nodded, the group seeming to disperse in order to place their packs somewhere "This'll be her maiden voyage, isn't she a beauty?"

"I believe the minds behind the cannon may be upset about their assets, sir." Karg replie, earning himself the sight of a general placing a hand to his face "But yes, she looks as dauntless as _Orgim's Hammer_, sir." With that he followed the rest of the group as they headed below decks, the small satchel on his back containing his few necessities.

Author's Notes:

First off, allow me to apologise _profusely _for that horrible bit of humour at the end. I'm sorry, truly I am, but I couldn't resist the urge, as who _really_ would want the main gun to be impractically large?

Now then, you'll notice that I've added more speaking roles to the story, in particular to Tempori and Karg himself. Also among the changes are a few members of the 'supporting' protagonists, though they'll have their own storylines dealing with their own problems mostly. A few other supporting crew members will be introduced chapter to chapter.

Also, I'd like to thank Coincidencless for providing inspiration for bronze dragon speech. Even though the character with echoes was the Epoch Hunter.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: the Warcraft brand belongs to Blizzard entertainment; I own nothing but my own characters.

Warcraft – Into the Southern Mists

Chapter III – Casting Off, to Endure the Wait

The chosen force (which, when fully assembled, numbered just under a hundred veteran warriors and adventurers) stood ready as the gunship set off, carried by the winds and the great gas bags reinforced with steel. As they watched their lands float away beneath them as they went to open sea not one soldier of the Horde shed a tear, instead only placing a hand to their chest and bowing their heads before heading away to carry out their duties. Karg remained only at the order of Nazgrim, who was stood in front of the immense prow cannon

"You smell that, Karg?" the General inquired, filling his lungs with the sea air "It's the smell of our homes, the lands our kind have bled and died to preserve."

"Aye sir, after all, we were present for the settling of Durotar." Karg answered, only to silenced by the General holding a hand up for silence

"And listen… Do you hear that? It's the sound of peace and safety – a haven we've carved, where our enemies fear to tread." Karg nodded, choosing to remain silent instead of being hushed "Remember these things, because you _won't_ be experiencing them again anytime soon. We have a war to win."

"Yes, sir." Karg answered, before heading off back to the middeck beneath cannon, where the chosen warriors had their assigned bunks prepared.

-Above the Great Sea, three days later days later-

"I'm tellin' ya, Bron me boy, you're gonna need something better than a log to hit people with." Beedle Steamwheedle stated, his voice full of exasperation "Why not have something _flashy_ to hit people with? Something with _pizazz_?" the Tauren opposite him, Bron, merely looked up from his arm-mounted totem – which he was cleaning with a rag wet from rain water – and stared blankly at the Goblin

"Because the totems last longer." As he said this Karg and one of the Pandaren – a bulky male named Sinjo Swiftpaw who claimed to be 'bremaster' – entered. Upon those words reaching their ears the two stopped their conversation for a few seconds, before barking with laughter

"By the sp-hahao-irits!" Sinjo barked, his normally quiet voice was replaced by a boisterous one in seconds "Th-haha!-at was hilarious!" Karg himself couldn't talk due to the laughter, which lasted a few seconds more before dying down. The orc walked over and slapped the Goblin on the shoulder, almost slamming him headfirst into the floor boards

"Face it, Steamwheedle, he got you there." He stated, before looking to the confused bull-man "Nothing beats an effective weapon. Might I suggest however, you get some of those little add-ons from the armoury?"

"I only use a totem." The Tauren rebuffed, his tone friendly, as was his overall demeanour. Both knew he wanted to be left alone to his own devices

"It was merely a suggestion, I didn't mean any offense, friend Bron."

"And you know I wouldn't get any offense." The two went their ways, the Goblin muttering as he went off, his pride injured at the declination, Karg and Sinjo continuing onwards to the training room, the latter telling of his old home on the back of a turtle.

-One Fortnight Later-

The winds had been generous in propelling the gas bags forward, accompanied by the propeller powered by the roaring factory of an engine in the lower decks.

It was on this morning that the Horde cleared the mists.

The Kor'kron sergeant Gorrok marched over to the imposing figure of Nazgrim, whose armoured form was enshrouded by the mist that had blanketed the vessel for the better part of a week. Slamming an armoured fist into his chest-plate he began to speak

"We've been flying in this mist for spirits know how long, General." He informed the veteran warrior "The crew grows…uneasy." Nazgrim merely snorted in derision

"Get back to your post, soldier!" the General barked, pointing towards the starboard side of the gunship as his voice dropped to a growl "We'll find this land, or die trying." Gorrok immediately retreated, slamming a plated fist into his chest once again before storming off. Scarce seconds later, a Goblin known as Rivet Clutchpop , diminutive even by the standards of his kinsmen called out

"Land ho!"

Nigh on a hundred heads rose in shocked unison at the Goblin's shrill call. Within moments, armour was adorned over clothing and the sound of footfalls was deafening as they stampeded on deck from their bunks. Nazgrim himself had dashed to the port railing, where the call had originated, and looked on in awe, before his face turned into a fearsome scowl

"Alliance ship, portside!" he bellowed, quivering with rage as he drew an axe, hefting it aloft in one hand despite its weight as a testament to his strength and rage, pointing it's curved head towards the blue sailed vessel below "ATTACK!"

As if on cue the portside guns let loose a broadside, whilst the Forsaken siege catapult let loose a noxious payload. None aboard _Hellscream's Fist_ expected return fire. Yet fire the Alliance vessel did, carronades were lifted from below deck by a crafty lifting mechanism, and they fired chain-shot, hoping to smash through the chains attaching the balloons to the vessel.

Instead they hit something far worse.

The chain-shot was aimed far too low to hit the lock down chains, but they were at the perfect trajectory to hit the engine, the velocity carrying them forward at speeds high enough to tear a man in two, and so they smashed through the lower sections of the hull, tearing crew members - and any other unfortunates – before smashing into the engine, causing it to explode in a most spectacular fashion.

Even as the vessel rocked violently, casting one or two dozen to their deaths while the others attempted to cling onto anything at hand, many adventurers had grappling cables which they had deployed at the order to attack, saving them from a grim fate. Many of the deckhands on top deck were saved by dangling adventurers, karg included, being saved from a long fall by Sinjo, who had somehow formed a chain with Bronn. As the Pandaren's leather bound hand gripped a hold of his foot he felt his blood rush to his head.

As the gunship reached the high point of its shake several cannons smashed through the gunnery deck's portside hull. The cannons that had smashed through were sent tumbling down alongside any crew and ammunition nearby, smashing into the vessel and crippling it. For a few minutes the gunship hung in its dire state before righting itself and smashing many of the grapplers into the hull and any gaping holes in it.

By the time Karg had woken there was a battle raging across the vessel, and as he clambered to his feet an Alliance soldier rushed up towards him, and he barely managed to make a clumsy parry. He could barely see, as blood flowed over his main eye, effectively clamping it shut. As he swung his axe – _Bryntoll_ – in a haphazard arc he missed the human entirely, but his right eye saw clear enough the kick that sent his opponent out of the gaping hole nearby.

Sinjo Swiftpaw was truly living up to his name. The staff he wielded with an rarely seen ease was sending opponents flying across the gunnery deck, and more than one through the holes to a gruesome ending. Tossing aside his smashed helmet he began trying to clear the blood covering his left eye, retreating backwards all the while. The pandaren brewmaster looked over his shoulder for a second, yelling something the Orc warrior could not hear before returning to battle with gusto.

By the time he ran back in with reinforcements a few moments later, his sight clear once again, he found it to be a massacre.

Sinjo stood panting painfully against the safes part of the hull, his coat – fully black at a distance until you saw he had very dark grey fur splattered here and there – covered in blood. Leaning heavily on his staff he began to hobble over

"Heh, that should show them, won't it, my friends?" he managed to cough out, Karg moved as fast as he could, making certain he had a hold on the Huojin monk before making his way to top deck.

"I need a spirits-damned priest here!" Karg bellowed, as a Sin'dorei healer dashed over, accompanied by the other Pandaren, whose hands were covered in small pockets of green mist as she ran. Her face was contorted in fear

"Sinjo!" she nearly screamed as she skidded to a halt by the downed monk's side, the priest's hands enveloped in a golden haze as she began to pray to the light. The other Pandaren – Fei Longstrider – knelt down and began to throw the mists over the barely breathing form of Sinjo "Great spirits of water, grant me your powers! Shu, I beg you!" It was evident, however, that the water spirit she called upon was unable to answer her plight, and Sinjo could only manage to wheeze as he hacked up a gout of blood

"_I... Feed on violence_" he coughed, as another load of blood cleared his once grinning mouth "_And now... I'm full_." With a final lopsided grin his eyes misted over and rolled up. His arms fell limp and hit the ground with a dull thud. The cries of sorrow that Karg and Fei let out shattered the sky.

-|-Author's Notes-|-

First off, any who are reading this scripture, allow me to once again apologise profusely for my tardiness in the writing of this chapter, but I have had...issues, with my current schedule, alongside working with an anonymous writer for the Alliance half of this saga.

I know that Tempori did not appear at all in this chapter, but this can be attributed to her being asleep throughout the majority of the voyage through the mists. A terrible excuse, I know, but at the moment, it is the only one I can actually think of. Now, I would like to move onto my joint effort writing of the Alliance half.

The Idea stemmed from a scrapped idea for a fanfiction featuring Worgen servants working at Theramore, a pointless exercise I know, but let us not forget this is being written for fun and obviously based in an Alternate reality (which I will explain in the first chapter of the upcoming fiction), starting with a row between two of the main supporting characters.

Until next time, I shall bid you adieu.


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